Place

This is an exercise I did for Introduction to Creative Writing and Editing class. We're talking about nonfiction writing currently. For our final project, I've chosen to write a memoir.

Too many text messages. Too many phone calls. Too much yelling, bustling, hustling, screaming, arguing, fighting, running, dashing, working, typing, writing, delivering, creating, caring! I just want it all to end. I pull into my driveway, and there is my beautiful home with its overgrown grass and thick weeds because the landlord keeps forgetting to weedeat. There's one of the little hummingbirds whizzing high up into the thick branches of a tree to hide as I walk down the unstable row of stepping stones to the front door. I twist my Hawaiian-decorated key in the lock then step through door with a sigh of relief. Here, I can unravel. Here, I can't run into anyone I know or be forced to have a conversation or say thank you, and I can ignore the dirty dishes and the floor that needs to be swept and the toilet that needs to be cleaned if I want to. Sparta comes prancing out of nowhere and instantly starts meowing for attention. His devotion and love is unconditional no matter how many times I've given him a bath or scalded his skin with flea medication or accidentally bopped him on the nose with whatever it is I'm holding at the time. I peel off my high heeled shoes, unzip my slacks, throw off my shirt and head to the bathroom. My dinosaur-shaped toothbrush holder smiles at me as I rub all the make-up off my face and recognize myself again in the mirror. Then, I head to my bedroom on the other side of the house. All the while, Sparta is trotting along beside me. I pull on one of Stuart's shirts because they're so comfy and my UNCG sweatpants before collapsing on the big leather sofa in front of the TV. I turn on the TV. I turn on the Wii. Then, I get ready for some much needed NetFlix therapy. Yes, it's good to be home.